A State of Normalcy
by CountessButternut
Summary: It happened. Again.


"Delilah, may I come in?"

"_Go away_."

"It might help to talk about it."

"I said, go away, Dad!"

"Delilah, may _I _come in?"

The last voice caused the thirteen-year-old to pause and gather her bearings. She nearly leapt off the bed, straightening her skirt and quickly evening out her prim ringlets.

"Grandmother?" she asked hopefully, cautiously. The door creaked open and a woman that vaguely resembled Delilah stepped forth. Her blonde hair was fading to gray, but everything else about her remained sharp and spotless. Her neck was long, her face was thin, and her blue eyes were cold. Footsteps down the hall indicated that her father had left.

"May I sit down?" Her grandmother gestured toward her bed. Delilah nodded.

"Yes, ma'am."

"No need for that, Delilah," her grandmother sighed, taking in the room. "I see you have been keeping organized. Good girl."

"Grandmother," she said carefully, clasping her fingers together in her lap and sitting across from her on the window seat. "Did—did Dad tell you about—?"

"About your brother? Yes," she said briskly. "I figured something like this would happen again."

"Again?"

The woman's lips twitched. "Yes. My sister—some time ago. Your father didn't even know her. She was murdered, and we were forced to raise her son."

Delilah was silent, her eyes betraying her swarming confusion and fear.

"Oh, dear, don't look at me like that."

"She was a wizard, too?" she squeaked, practically whispering the word. Her grandmother smiled slyly.

"Witch. She was a witch. Her son was a wizard."

"Dad never told me."

"I suppose he wouldn't have wanted to, considering…" Her grandmother trailed off, sighing again, slowly shaking her head. "I have made my share of mistakes in my life, Delilah. I can only hope you don't repeat them. Come; sit," she added, patting the space beside her on the bed. Her granddaughter fell into place obediently, letting the woman wrap her arm around her and rub her shoulder reassuringly.

"My little sister was everything I ever wanted to be: charming, witty, beautiful. I was so _jealous _when I found out she was a witch. I wrote to her school, and they wrote back explaining I could never be apart of her world. So, in my fury, I made sure my little sister wasn't apart of _mine_. I grew to hate her, even in her death, and I resented her son all the more. And you know what? It wasn't worth it."

"What wasn't worth it?"

Her grandmother froze abruptly, and caught Delilah's gaze. "Your brother is your brother, magic or not. Don't let jealousy obscure that."

Gradually, Delilah burrowed her face into her grandmother's shoulder. "But why _him? _Why not me?"

"Never ask that question," she quipped. "It isn't worth it—none of it."

"It's still not fair," Delilah protested, her voice muffled in the fabric of her grandmother's dress.

"Since when has life ever been fair? Don't answer that question," she said quickly. "We're going for a walk," she announced suddenly, standing up. "Come, Delilah. I don't have all day."

Nearly eleven months later, Delilah sat beside her grandmother on a bench in the train station. Her parents had promptly disappeared to fetch her brother, and for the most part, she tried to ignore the fact they had vanished through a solid barrier.

"They're so odd," she muttered so only her grandmother could hear. "Letters by owls, wands, and then they have to take a _train _to get to their school."

"Don't think about it. He's your brother," she repeated for what had to be the millionth time. Delilah sighed dramatically.

"Will they hurry up?"

"Have patience."

Every now and then, strange-looking people would emerge from seemingly nothing. Most of them were dressed very conspicuously in half-hearted attempts to look normal or in total disregard. Some of their cloaks swirled across the platforms. They were witches and wizards—all of them—but none of them were her brother. Delilah groaned and crossed her legs tightly.

"Patience," her grandmother repeated, though she smiled this time. But just as quickly as her smile was there, it was gone. Instead, her face was blank and pale, her eyes locked on a man who looked suspiciously normal.

He had jet-black hair and glasses, and wore jeans, ordinary shoes, and a leather jacket. He was followed by a red-haired woman, two boys, and a girl. Despite all of his distractions, Delilah watched as the man finally felt her grandmother's stare and turned back to see her.

He, too, froze.

"Grandmother, who…?"

"DELILAH! Guess what! Guesswhatguesswhatguesswhat…"

"DAVID!" she cried out, unable to restrain her fits of giggles as her little brother appeared, tickling her mercilessly. The next thing she knew her mother was back, chiding him to stop, and her father was panting at her side, lugging his school trunk.

"Grandmother!" David finally said, leaving Delilah on the bench. "Did you get my last letter?" He sounded worried.

"I did," she assured him, her eyes darting briefly to where the black-haired man had been. Delilah followed her gaze, but the man was gone. "But I figured it wasn't worth returning; I only received it yesterday."

"Who wants ice cream?" Their mother cried out jubilantly, and David and Delilah both cheered.

"You need to come home more often, baby brother," Delilah whispered in his ear. "I need more days like this…"

The blonde family was making their way out of the station, more loudly than was typical. They had walked quite a ways before Delilah ran into the back of her father, who had stalled for whatever reason. It occurred to her only then that her grandmother was still lingering behind. Something strange was spreading across her father's face, and her mother nudged him.

"What's wrong, dear?...Who is _that_?"

The black-haired man and her grandmother were talking. After a long moment, her grandmother nodded curtly and turned around, heading steadily toward them; the man held back a moment, his hand raised in a partial wave, before he turned slowly back toward his crowd.

"Honey, do you know him?" her mother asked again, but her father never answered.

"So, who's up for that ice cream?" Her grandmother asked pleasantly when she arrived, smiling down on her grandchildren. David whooped and punched the air, while Delilah reached over to ruffle his blonde hair.

"I want mint chocolate chip," Delilah announced.

"You _always _get that…"

"At least I don't just get plain vanilla, _Mum_," Delilah teased while her mother pretended to look offended. David snorted.

"Yeah, well, it's still the same thing. There's this kid I met—you might actually like him, Delilah—and he always says—_oh! _I almost forgot! He was telling me about this kid named Harry Potter about twenty years ago—"

A hand rested on Delilah's shoulder and squeezed gently; she didn't look up to see if it was her grandmother. Whoever it was, she didn't care.

Her brother was home, and everything was as normal as it ever could be.

Delilah Dursley of Number Fourteen, Westwing Road, was proud to have a hair of abnormality in her life, thank you very much.


End file.
